


Make Me Feel Alive

by mintpearlvoice



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Drunk Sex, F/F, Masturbation, Non-Consensual Voyeurism, Sexual Repression, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-13
Updated: 2016-06-13
Packaged: 2018-07-14 18:39:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 775
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7185491
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mintpearlvoice/pseuds/mintpearlvoice
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As a side-effect of brainwashing and sensory deprivation, Widowmaker can't unravel wanting to fuck Tracer from wanting to kill her. These fantasies simmer under a facade of celibate superiority as she watches Tracer with one-night stands.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Make Me Feel Alive

“As Talon’s finest creation, I have no need for any pleasures of the flesh. I don’t feel temperature, I don’t have a sense of taste.. and I lack urges towards others, therefore making me superior towards the rest of the world. Do you know why I killed my husband? Because he was weak. He leaned in to press his lips against mine, and I struck the first blow.”  
-Widowmaker, transcript of private audio recording

Literally every one of her former colleagues is a disgusting, rutting animal, with the possible exception of the literal animal. Mercy, so desperate to save Reyes’ life that she was willing to turn her lover into a monster. Zarya, always luxuriating in the feel of sunlight against her firm skin.  
And Tracer. Out of all of them, Tracer’s the worst. Twirling around in those obscenely tight leggings that hug her pert little ass, grinning and flirting as if she doesn’t care what people imagine when they look at her. She’ll kiss any girl who offers to buy her a drink. Mash their slick wet mouths together under the spinning neon lights.

  
If she had the neurotransmitters for strong emotions, she’d feel so much contempt for Tracer. When she watches it makes her lips curl and her heart thud. The first time, she stalked Tracer to kill her. Now she knows she wants that girl to die slow. Splayed naked and wriggling, stripped bare for her, fogging the perfect stainless steel of Talon’s laboratory with sweat and breath. Widowmaker will taunt her with the evidence of all these nights and feel Tracer’s soft pathetic heartbeat blur like a hummingbird’s under her hand.

  
When Tracer’s gotten some girl into the bathroom or the alleyway, she always says the same thing. “Please, please don’t take off my top- I know my tits are real, I know they’re real soft, but I had loads of heart surgeries when I was little and I’m really self-conscious about them.”  
Widowmaker knows the real story; it would sound like “Time is my playground. I’m a visitor to the now, more dead than alive. I’m made of milliseconds and blue fire.” But these nightclub girls that Tracer orbits on every international mission, they’re weak. They leave wet stains on their miniskirts and can’t handle the truth. Tracer is even weaker because that little bitch begs.

  
Head slammed against the brickwork, tilting her neck for the killing blow. One shot, fuck, just one sudden explosion. Pushing compressed air and sound as her missile hurtles deep into all that bare skin-  
“Come on, love. I need more. Hurt me. I swear I won’t break.” Her hands tucked into the back pockets of some expatriate’s designer jeans. Slipping under hemlines and kneading, squeezing. How can her fingers be so precise on the trigger after this crude, foolish act?  
“Yeah, that’s it. Bite me- my hair- yeah, that’s fucking good, I need you to leave marks.” She’s the architect of her own disintegration, skin flushed with blood, and she sucks on her cunt-slick fingers and tweaks her own nipples until she whimpers.

  
Widowmaker sinks her teeth into her fist, chest wrenching tight. Tracer would get what’s coming to her, she thinks. I’d destroy her. The night air brushes across her exposed collarbones. Her whole body feels taut. Bullets spill across the rooftop and she reloads again and again until the gun jams.  
A helpless sound tells her that Tracer’s about to come. This shivery little half-laugh, half-whimper. Undone and weak. “Oh, shite- yeah, there-“  
That’s why Widowmaker needs to wrench her open. Shove the ice of her fingers into that hot, vulnerable wound and disembowel everything that makes her feel-

  
Three heartbeats in a row. Fast as the living. It’s a cascading wave that rocks her, wrecks her, makes her scrabble for purchase against the brick. Blood pounds through her like a punch to the stomach. For one helpless moment of open-mouthed self-hatred, she tastes moss and smoke and concrete. Sensation ricochets through her body. She clamps down on her fingers, clutches at her crotch-  
Tracer’s sigh of release splits the air. With a bruised, clumsy hand, Widowmaker depresses the plunger on her gauntlet. Blessed coolness fills her as another dose of chemicals seeps into her blood. She sees Tracer down in the alleyway, still catching her breath, slumped in the arms of her disheveled lover. Tracer twines her arms around the girl, and they start kissing again.

  
Widowmaker could leap down there in a heartbeat and yank them apart. Kill them both execution-style with a single shot. Next time I’ll get that little slut, she tells herself, and fades into the night.


End file.
